


The Man and the Boy

by Not_A_Valid_Opinion



Series: Icarus knew how high he could fly and still, he went higher [2]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Study, Dirk is still pretty young, Other, Post-Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently), Svlad just became Dirk, gets dark at the end, he needs a break, hes on the run, hes tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_A_Valid_Opinion/pseuds/Not_A_Valid_Opinion
Summary: Svlad- no, Dirk, his name is Dirk- is finally free from Blackwing, and is on the run. He meets a nice old man, and the universe tells him to go with the man.Dirk hates the universe, sometimes.





	The Man and the Boy

**Author's Note:**

> nnghhgh okay here i am again, second time posting this since it told me it saved a draft and I turned it on this morning and, ha, no draft. Anyway, this fic gets kinda dark at the end, and No, it's Not Dirk who dies, lol. Just be careful if you're triggered by blood. This fic is also posted as Cjellion on FF.N written as a chapter fic rather than a series, so if y'all prefer that format, have at it there :)

It was warm, and Dirk loved it. 

It had been so long since he’d felt the sun stroke his cheek like his mother's hand had done(so long since she’d done that, too). 

He had run, run so far, for so long, and was bitterly thankful, somewhere in the back of his mind, that they had him run on a treadmill once, sometimes twice a day. He knew how to push past the exhaustion. He hated it, but he kept going, and only stopped when he got hit by a car.

Dirk had never been hit by a car before. Of course, he assumed, that was a good thing. It hurt, and he was forced in two directions at once- the one he’d been running in, and the other he’d been propelled at. 

He doesn’t think he passed out, so the car must not have been going as fast as he had been running. He thinks he had been running pretty fast. His legs were pretty long, but he hadn’t much to compare them too. 

It hurt. 

He must have already landed, but after he was hit, he didn’t feel any new sensations. He didn’t feel anything other than a note to a song, and it hurt his chest, like it was pulling him back to where he had finally,  _ finally  _ been freed from. It hurt, the note, and it made him want to cry, but he suspects he just lay there. 

A man stands over him, and it takes Dirk a while to notice him, but when he does, he sees the wrinkles in the man’s face and the sky contrasting him, the sun not fully in the sky but still there, already falling down, and Dirk turns his eyes back to the man, trying to focus on him without thinking anything besides how bright the sun is to look at, how odd. 

Then, he thinks, after seeing the man’s lips move and hearing no voice, he realizes he should get away from this man. He might be a part of Blackwing. His blood would run cold, but his body is still working to remind him he has blood, and its moving around inside of him, and he focuses on the movement under his skin for a moment, and he remembers himself. 

He doesn’t know this man, so he does not trust this man. He doesn’t trust most men he does know, though. 

He sits up violently, and lets out an involuntary cry at the sudden movement. The man moves back, startled, and his eyes are wide, and Dirk scrambled away, one hand wrapped around his chest as though to hold himself together. 

The man tries to reach for him, it seems, his face holding an expression he doesn’t remember ever seeing on a man, and Dirk is terrified. He tries to get up, but feels himself wheeze and cry and fall with nothing happening at all. It hurts, and he falls on his back, and he thinks,  _ I don’t want to go back. _

Nobody grabs him, however, and this time, the man talks, and Dirk doesn’t see the man’s mouth move, his own eyes shut closed with a staggering strength, but he hears the voice. It’s not the voice from the rooms, the voice that tells him what to do, what he’s doing wrong, wrong, WRONG. 

The voice is scared, and old, and Dirk hears it and doesn’t believe it. 

“Are you alright?” 

 

_ “Are you alright?” A soft voice surrounds him, and a young Svlad sniffles, and rubs his eyes, once, twice, drags his fists down his cheek and onto his lap and sniffles again.  _

_ “I saved him, and it hurt,” he almost begs for an answer to his words, as though they were a question, which only his mother seemed to know how to answer.  _

_ “I know. I’m sorry,” she says politely, and Svlad sniffles, but he can already feel his tears starting to dry. “Can I see it, honey?”  _

_ Svlad holds his arm out, twists it around so she can see the cuts, and looks away so he doesn’t have too. He hears his mother make a  _ tut,  _ and sniffles again. “My, my, Mr. Mittens got you good, hmm.”  _

_ She rubs something burny on his arm, and it hurt, but a much nicer hurt.  _

_ They sat there quietly for a moment, his mother tending to him and him watching her, slowly stopping sniffling, slowly growing upset.  _

_ “Why would’e hurt me if I saved him from that bag? It’s not my fault he got catnapped. I saved him! Mr. Roswell left him in a bag in the ditch!”  _

_ His mother laughed lightly. “Honey, some people aren’t good people, and some cats aren’t appreciative cats. The universe is funny like that.”  _

_ Svlad shook his head. “It was the universe that told me to go follow Mr. Roswell. If anything about this is funny, it's how mean the universe can be.”  _

_ His mother looked at him oddly, and Svlad assumed it was because he was being grumpy and his mother didn’t like it when he was a grump, so he tried again, “But, well. The cat’s okay, so I guess, it’s alright.”  _

 

“Boy, you okay? You came outta nowhere.” 

Svl- no,  _ Dirk _ blinked the sudden memory out of his eyes as though they were nothing more than dust. He stared at the man, sat up, whimpered. 

“You must have hurt your ribs, there. Come up, now; there’s a hospital not too far-” 

“No.”

The man regarded him. “You’re hurt, son. Why were you running so fast?” 

Dirk looked around him, tried to recall which way he came running from. He couldn’t tell. It was all trees and concrete. He had no clue, if he kept running, which way was towards and which away from Blackwing. He looked at the man again. “Which way did I come from?” He asked, his voice scratchy- he was thirsty, he’d been running for a while. 

The man let out a thoughtful hmm, and Dirk realized with a jolt that this man could easily just lie to him, could grab him, could trick him, could hurt him, and he would have no way of knowing if he should trust him. He tried to get up again, this time managing, but it hurt; his eyes felt wet. 

“I think you came offa’ there, now,” He pointed at one side of the road, one Dirk didn’t recognize, he didn’t recognize either side.

Dirk shook his head. 

“You thinkin’ something else?” The man asked, his voice light, almost amused. He sounded old, older than Riggens; nicer, too. Though Riggens wasn’t very old, he guessed. He didn’t know. 

“I have to go,” Dirk bit out against his ribs. He noticed the car, big and long, an open back, grey with red trimmings. He wondered, daringly, if he should follow the road, and knew the car would be the quickest way about it. “C-can I come with you?” He asked, eyes wide as he realized the implications of the words from his mouth. He didn’t know this man. He didn’t trust this man. He could be  _ them.  _

The man rubbed his stubbly grey and brown chin. He nodded as he did this. “Why, sure. You need to get looked at, boy. I didn’t mean ta hitcha, but point still stands as is, I did.”

“No,” Dirk wanted to cry, felt he was making a bad decision but knew he needed to go, had idled too long, didn’t know where to go, needed this man. “No, that’s fine, just, er… could you, perhaps, drive me, just, where ever? Just, uh, somewhere not here and far from here?” 

The man was taking too long to look him over, and he decided to use manners he hadn’t used for years, manners he couldn’t forget if he tried, and asks, “Please? I’m sorry.” 

Silence. Dirk squirmed. 

“Hop in the front, kid. I got junk in the back.” 

Dirk was opening the car door before he’d finished talking. 

“Other side, kid!” 

Dirk paused. “The other side has the wheel.”

“Not in America, it don’t.” 

Dirk paused, looked to the wheel, blinked. Closed the door, groaned, and headed to the side door. He forgot he was in America. He wondered how long he’d been in America for, in Blackwing for, and almost doesn’t want to know. 

 

“Put on your seatbelt, there,” Said the old man, and Dirk looked at him funny. The man looked back at him, the road, him. “The- thing just here, kid,” He said, pulling at his own, and Dirk looked at his skeptically before looking around for his own. He found it, and it hurt to pull down, and he didn’t recall what to do with it next, felt panicked at the idea of being strapped down again. He let it wind back up, curled in on himself a little. The man was watching him oddly, like his mother used to do, and Dirk hated it. 

“Where ya from, huh? Britain? You got a bit of an accent, when you talk.” 

Dirk remembered traces of England. He remembers the cold weather and the many familiar accents he hadn’t heard in so long, doesn’t understand how the man thinks he still sounds like he’s from there, after so, so long (at least, that’s how long he felt he’d been away for). 

“Don’t talk much, though,” the old man said with a smile in his voice. Dirk looked at him. He didn’t trust him, felt he couldn’t. He didn’t want to talk to him, but still, he wanted to say something. He wanted to cry. His ribs hurt. He was tired. He wanted to go back outside, to feel the sun again. He looked out the window, saw the trees whirr past, Blackwing somewhere behind them. Was this what freedom felt like? Were the others free? What about Mona? She must have got out, with what she could do. Right? 

He searched his jacket pockets, looking for any trinkets he didn’t recall putting there, found none. His fingers scanned over the lined pattern, the Project Icarus insignia. He felt iron weigh heavy on his tongue. He was a project, and he was free, and they’d be looking for him. They’d be looking for that symbol. 

His breathing hitched, and he tried to get out of the jacket, but his ribs forbid the movement. 

“Hey, hey now, you’re gonna kill yourself, kid. Hang tight, okay? I’m taking you back to my place.” 

That made Dirk stop. His eyes went wide. 

“Your place?” He asked incredulously, and his voice cracked slightly. 

The man nodded. “It’s a tiny little place, not too far of a drive now. My wife, Mary, and our dog and me make a nice little family. They won’t mind having a guest over. That okay with you, kid?” 

He didn’t know. He had no idea what was and wasn’t okay with him. 

_ Family.  _

God, how he missed hearing that word. He’d almost forgotten what it meant, but doesn’t see how he ever could. 

“Okay,” He agreed. 

The man smiled softly. It didn’t make Dirk feel better. 

 

The man had to help the staggering boy inside, as Dirk was having issues breathing in whenever he stood up straight, and couldn’t walk right hunched over. He tried his best to look around at where they were, to make sure he knew his surroundings, that they were secure. It seemed to be a colourful neighbourhood. Dirk didn’t recall what his house looked like in England, but imagined it was bigger, duller. 

They went inside the house, the man gently guiding him inside after him. Dirk was hesitant. He felt like this was a bad idea. He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t know these people. 

There was a bark. 

There was a  _ dog. _

Dirk stepped in the direction of the noise, and came face to face with a vigorously barking little, stumpy looking dog. 

“That’s Sadie,” said the man, “Our little girl.” 

Dirk stared at the dog as though he had seen heaven. “I…” He started, and felt tears well up in his eyes, and started to sob. 

The man held Dirk’s shoulders, and Dirk felt himself flinch. Then, the man slowly dropped down to his knees in front of him. Dirk let his hands rest on his shoulders this time, listened to the dog’s barking start to slow as she watched her owner. 

“Your ribs hurtin’, pal? You wanna sit down? We got a couch,” he reasoned, his eyes filled with an expression Dirk still couldn’t place but feels like he’s seen on the man before (Concern, he learns much later on). 

His ribs were hurting. It hurt to breath, and it hurt to cry, and he didn’t know why he started to cry, but felt he couldn’t stop. It hurt, it all hurt. 

 

_ Plate licked his newest injury, on his knee, given to him by a bully at school, who’d shoved him into the dirt for being who he is. Svlad didn’t cry, but he certainly didn’t feel good. Svlad was a big boy, and big boys don’t cry because they scraped their knee for being who they are.  _

_ “You’re my only friend, you know, Plate?” The boy informed the dog, who never paused in his licks. “You’re the gentlest friend in the whole wide world.”  _

 

Dirk was on the couch, now. He assumed the man led him there, but he must have missed it. He’d had a dog. It was a small dog, but his was white, and smaller. His was a boy, and his name was Plate, and Dirk, for the life of him, cannot recall why he named his dog Plate, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

The man was moving around his house, digging around in the cabinets. Dirk looked around the house from where he was sat. It was a house, for sure. Dirk had no clue how to describe it. He can’t even remember what his own house looked like, not really. This house was nicer than his room at Blackwing, his cell. Anything was better than anywhere in Blackwing, though, so he supposed this house was very nice. 

The man returned with a bottle and a pair of scissors. Dirk stared at this scissors. The man noticed, and lowered them, so they looked shadowed. 

“I better take a look at your ribs, kid. You look like it hurts for you to breath. That right?” 

Dirk noticed the dog had gone quiet, and had taken the seat next to him on the couch, watching him intently. Dirk nodded as he looked the dog in the eyes. 

“Do you need help getting that jacket off?” 

Dirk wanted the jacket off so badly. He nodded again, and the man helped him shed the uniform. Underneath, he had a light grey shirt. The man asked if it was okay if he used the scissors to cut the neck of his shirt, so Dirk wouldn’t have to raise his arms to get it off, and Dirk hesitantly agreed to this too. He tried to focus on breathing normally as the man cut the shirt off, tried not to feel uncomfortable as he felt his shirt be gently taken off of him. 

The man looked over his chest, and Dirk felt like he was back in Blackwing, and he shut his eyes and expected to be poked with needles and forced to run and stuck with blue things. However, when nothing came, he opened his eyes, again, and noticed the man was staring at him. Specifically, his chest, in the upper right corner, where he had no choice in receiving a tattoo with the symbol of who he is and never would escape. Dirk looked away almost as soon as he noticed, tried to turn away, but it hurt, so he settled on just looking at the tiny brown dog watching him with curiosity. 

“Well, your ribs don’t look too bad. Bit of bruising, should be better in two or three weeks. If you feel the need to cough, grab a pillow and put it against your chest, alright kid? I’m gonna go grab you a spare shirt.” The man said after a moment, and walked away, leaving Dirk shirtless in a room he couldn’t recall the name of. (He’d also recall this to be a  _ living room.) _

Dirk moved to stroke the dog, but it growled at his hand. He put it back on his lap. 

The man returned with a thin, pink shirt. “It’s my wife’s,” he explained, “I think it’ll fit you better than any of my clothes, and it’s more open at the top, so it’s easier to slip into. I’d imagine, I mean. S’not like I’ve worn it, ha.” 

Dirk wasn’t sure if the man was joking or not, hadn’t had someone joke with him for so long. Mona had joked with him at times, but they were always kinda murdery jokes, and Dirk liked her as a person, but she didn’t make him laugh often. 

“Take two of those, and try to get some rest, alright? Your ribs don’t look like they need medical attention, but it won't hurt to be careful,” said the man, holding out the bottle of water he’d been holding earlier in one hand, some pills in the other. 

Dirk was, at this point, too emotionally tired to be scared of what may be in the pills, and swallowed them like he’d done it millions of times before. 

It wasn’t late out, only just getting dark, but the couch was softer than any surface he’d ever felt and he practically sunk into it. He noticed the man was in the room next to him, going through his (fridge), looking for something, but Dirk had drifted off before even bothering to wonder what the man’s name was. 

 

“He’s rather young. How old is he?” 

“I didn’t ask him. Kid looked like he just got hit by a truck, Mary.” 

There was soft laughter, and the sound of skin hitting skin. 

“Ow, I was  _ kidding.  _ Either way, I got no clue where he came from. Maybe he ran away... _ ”  _

Dirk’s eyes fluttered, and he groaned softly, and the voices stopped. He rubbed at his eyes, felt his ribs hurt at the movement, worse than the other day, and began to cough roughly, holding at his ribs in pain. 

A pillow is pressed into his chest, and he realizes it's the old man, holding his ribs steady as he coughs. He doesn’t know how he feels about this, but when he finishes, he collapses against the couch again, trying to breath normally. 

“It’s gonna hurt for the next few days, but it’ll be bearable soon enough. Just gotta push through it, pal,” Said the man, who threw his head over his shoulders to look at the woman in the other room (kitchen, he re-learns one day). 

Dirk came back to himself, ribs aching, ignoring it. “Who’re you?” He asked, directing his head towards the woman. She smiled at him. 

“My name’s Mary,” She said sweetly, coming closer, and Dirk narrowed his eyes. She halted herself, stayed where she was. “I live here, with Christen. T-the man, there,” She gestured to the old man, who was moving towards her now, threw his arm around her shoulder. 

“You’re his wife,” Dirk mentally congratulated himself for remembering, and they both smiled at him. 

“What’s your name, honey?” She asked, and Dirk heard his mother’s voice in hers, and he hated it. He looked to the floor. 

They seemed nice. Dirk had never been fortunate enough to know anybody who seemed nice to him, not in his memory, not in a long time. He wanted so badly to trust them, but knew, knew something was off, knew something was going to go wrong if he stayed. He almost missed the itching in his skin, in comparison to this feeling. 

“Dirk,” he decided. “I… ya. Dirk.” 

He’d never said it outloud. He was not Svlad. Svlad was a prisoner, a project. Icarus. Dirk would not fly so close to the sun. Dirk was free. 

“Dirk,” repeated the old man, Christen. “Where did you come from?” 

Dirk shook his head. Mary tried, this time. “Are you hungry, Dirk?” She asked, and Dirk was, so he nodded. 

He almost burst out into tears when he was presented with the porkchops. 

It was late out, by now, and he must not have slept for as long as he’d have liked; it was nearly midnight. 

He ate like he was starving. They tasted astounding. 

“These are  _ astounding,”  _ Dirk announced, eyes wide as he shoveled some peas into his mouth. 

Mary let out a laugh. “They’re just leftovers, unfortunately.” 

Dirk chewed. “Whassat?” 

The couple blinked, and Dirk swallowed, then shoved a whole porkchop in his mouth. 

“Y’know, when your parents make too much food, so you put some in the fridge and heat it up the next day?” 

Dirk kept chewing, showed no sign he heard them. The couple exchanged glances. Dirk was oblivious to their concerned gazes, instead opting to finish his meal at record pace. 

Mary put some food in her own mouth, looked to Christen. The old man cleared his throat. “So, kid, you were… running awfully fast when I hit ya, huh? What were you running from, a bear?” He says this with a laugh, but it’s quiet, serious. 

Dirk just wants to eat. He hardly notices his own words when he answers. “The government,” he swallows his mouthful, looks up. Realizes they’re expressions are disbelief and shock. He’s rather familiar with those expressions, grew up with them. 

“T-the government?” Christen sputters, and Dirk feels bad. He shouldn’t be telling them this. It’s not like they’d believe him. 

“No, I’m sorry, I recall, it, uh, it was a bear I was being, um,” he searches for the word, “the bear was, um. After me, I can’t find the word, you get the idea.” 

“Chasing?” 

“Yes! Chasing, the bear was chasing me, I was being chased by a bear, a big one,” Dirk takes a sip of the water they left out for him, loved drinking from a glass like this one. It was engraved and pretty and almost personal, the patterns. 

They ate quietly after that, and Dirk didn’t mind, because it was peaceful, and relaxing. The dog sat under the table, and Dirk could poke it with his toes, and the dog would nudge him back and lick his cold, grey socks. He wondered if he should ask him for some new socks. He’d love some new pants, too, since they were all from Blackwing, and he wanted to be rid of everything he could from that place. He never wanted to go back, ever. He was free, and he was eating porkchops in a loose, frilly pink t-shirt, with a dog and an old man and an old woman and a pretty glass cup. It was nice, and it wasn’t Blackwing. It wasn’t Svlad. 

There was a knock at the door. 

Dirk froze. The silence felt more heavy than comfortable, and Christen looked at the clock on his wrist (watch!) and shook his head in disbelief. “Who in their right mind would be knocking at our door at this hour?” He asked himself as he stood up. 

Dirk stood up just as quickly. “Don’t answer it.” 

“Why not?” ask Mary, her voice curious, and she started to stand as well. The door knocked again- it was a polite knock, a patient knock. A harmless knock. 

Dirk knew, in every fiber of his body, in every part of the universe, every corner of the house he didn’t belong in, they shouldn’t open the door. “Do  _ not  _ open the door,  _ please.”  _

At this point, both Mary and Christen were up and away from their seats, closer to him, as though proximity was comforting. “Son, what’s going on?” The old man asked, his voice hushed, and Mary watched the door warily. “Is someone after you? Is that why you were running?” 

Dirk nodded rapidly. “T-the bear, the bear, i-it followed me, I’m so sorry,” He stammered as quietly as he could, trying to control his breathing, it hurt to breath so fast. 

The door knocked again, this time, an angry knock. Loud, controlled, timed.

“Who, who’s the bear, Dirk? Mary, call 9-1-1,” Christen ordered, and Mary pulled out her phone, started typing, but Dirk slapped it from her hand before he realized what he was doing, had no clue why he did it. It crashed to the floor, shattered. It was loud. 

There was quiet. Then there was laughter outside the door. Dirk knew that laugh. 

“I’m so sorry,” He whispered, wanted to cry, took a step away from them. 

As soon as he took a step back, he realized he was the only one out of the line of the doorway. 

The gunfire was instant. 

Dirk dove out of the way, threw himself onto the side of the house with the couch, landed painfully on his ribs. His vision blurred, and his ears were ringing, and he knew he was crying, knew the second the gunfire stopped that Mary and Christen were dead, that he’d killed them, that Priest was here, there was no getting out of this, he was doomed, he was dead, he was going back- 

The door creaked open menacingly. Dirk didn’t get off the floor, couldn’t. He knew what was coming. 

“Heya, Icarus,” Priest greeted, and Dirk wasn’t breathing, pulled his arms over his head protectively despite the pain, felt no pain. He waited to be shot, to be yanked up, to be kicked, for anything to happen. Nothing happened. 

“Turn around,” the maniac ordered, and Dirk shivered, turned, faced Priest. Saw the shattered wooden door behind him, saw the red on the floor, saw the bodies. Dirk sobbed. It was his fault. It was his fault. 

Priest sneered. “This is your fault,” He said, gesturing to the Mary and Christen’s lifeless forms. Dirk closed his eyes shut, curled in on himself, cried.  _ My fault, My fault, My fault,  _ he screamed in his head, his voice exactly like the one in Blackwing that would scream WRONG, WRONG, WRONG, over and over and over until it became the only thought he could have. 

“You shouldn’t have ran, little Svlad. You knew nothing good would come of it. Blackwing is your  _ home.  _ You just,” he snaps his fingers, still expertly pointing the gun at him, “abandoned us! Just like that!” He sighed dramatically, pretended to be sad, and Dirk had no more sobs left in him, stared Priest in the eyes like the camera in his room. 

“You killed them,” Dirk bit out, his voice laced with venom, and Priest waved the gun a bit to remind the boy it was there. 

“That was your fault, freak. Let’s make this easy for both of us. I’m gonna shoot you in your legs so you can run off, and I’ll take you back home. Deal?” 

Dirk stared incredulously. “You can’t just  _ knock  _ me out?” 

“I mean, I  _ could,”  _ he admitted, and Dirk waited for more, but no more came. He felt his blood boil. 

“You’re a psychopath!”

“Sure!” the man with the gun let out a hoot, then aimed, and fired. 

The gun produced a little flag that read the words  _ “BANG!” _

They both stared in stunned silence.

“What the fuck?” Priest exclaimed, and Dirk kicked at his legs, causing the man to drop the gun and stumble back, and he tripped over Mary’s legs, fell into her blood. 

Dirk grabbed the gun, spun it around so it pointed at Priest, who raised his hand up, now covered in blood, in disgust. Dirk nearly choked at the sight of it, and his hands shook, and he swallowed his horror. Priest started to giggle, which he was prone to do, and Dirk wanted to shoot him, remembered he could. 

He put his finger on the trigger. Pulled it. A bullet went off right next to him, splintered the wood. Priest let out a, “Shit!” and pushed himself away from it, looked back at Dirk and the gun. Realization dawned in his eyes. “Well hello, Project Lamia. Wow, well played.” 

“Back up,” Dirk ordered, “Or I’ll shoot.” 

“You’ll shoot?” Priest smirked, “Who, lil’ol’me?” 

“Back UP, hands where I can see them,” Dirk swung the gun around carelessly, and Priest scooted back slightly, hands up, still smirking. 

Dirk made his way to the door, carefully trying not to step on any bodies. He heard a soft yip, and looked up, saw Sadie shaking in the corner of the room. Dirk watched her for a moment, almost wanted to apologize, then felt Priest lunge at him. The larger man knocked him over, and Dirk yelped, and the dog barked, and Priest shoved Dirk’s head against the floor, and his world went swimming, and his ribs were being crush under his weight, and it all happened at once. 

Priest grabbed the gun, and the gun shifted itself, and suddenly it was a falcon, and it clawed at Priest, who fell backwards with a cry. The falcon clawed at his arms, and then it switched into a vulture, and it took up most the room, its wings so large Dirk had to duck as he scuttled away from their tussle, made it to the door, yanked it open, called to Sadie. The dog came running, dashing out the door faster than he could ever go, and he followed right after, told himself to keep going, to not look back. Mona would be fine. Mona would be  _ fine.  _

He heard more gunfire behind him, knew it wasn’t aimed at him, knew Priest probably had more than one gun. 

Dirk kept running, blinking back tears of pain and guilt.  _ She’ll be fine,  _ he begged himself.

Dirk ran after Sadie, away from the house, where people seemed to be watching from their windows but not interfering. Probably Blackwing's doing, he figured as he ran, but he didn’t care, he just ran, and ran, until eventually, he found a bus, and he looked scared and bruised and bloodied up enough, with a quaking dog in toe, that the first bus of the morning sped away without ordering him to pay a fare. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I wrote this before episode 7 and in that episode Dirk just h a p p e n s to say something along the lines of “everything I do is wrong, wrong, wrong,” and I SCREAMED like yo i fucking KNEW the boy would be shook I KNEW it!!! Anyway comments feed a ho, might make the next part about Thor lol


End file.
